


Militat omnis amans (every lover is a soldier)

by viveriveniversumvivusvici55



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Body Worship, Breast Worship, Clothed Sex, Ex-Templar Inquisitor, F/M, Grinding, Non-Canon Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Power Dynamics, Samson Redemption, Strip Tease, Strip Tease as Interrogation, Templar Discourse, Tevinter Inquisitor (Dragon Age), This is kinda trash, You will be dragged to redemption whether you want to or not, but oh well, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:01:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24368521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viveriveniversumvivusvici55/pseuds/viveriveniversumvivusvici55
Summary: The message from the Inquisitor is short and sweet:Your ass is grass and I am the scythe.Samson isn't sure if he's amused, scared, or turned on.Probably all of the above.
Relationships: Female Inquisitor/Raleigh Samson
Kudos: 17





	Militat omnis amans (every lover is a soldier)

**Author's Note:**

> Surprise, I am back on my Inquisition bullshit.
> 
> Canonically, Ariadne sides with the Templars, because she will drag the Order to glory and redemption whether they want to or not, and it is such a great dynamic to have her against Calpernia -Tevinter against Tevinter and all. But this popped into my head and I couldn’t resist the thought. I am aware that it is trash. I am not sorry.

“My lord, we have an identity for the Herald of Andraste.”

For once, the messenger barging into a private meeting between Corypheus and Samson wasn’t going to get murdered. Corypheus glares and holds out a hand imperiously for the papers, and the messenger hands them over.

“Is she of any great importance?”

“No, my Lord. Her name is Ariadne Valerius Maren,” the messenger simpers, “third born, the only non-magical child in an altus family. From Minrathous. Former Knight Captain in the Imperial Templars, disowned by her family, hired as a mercenary for the Conclave. There is an old portrait of her there as well, my lord, for a marriage offer that was turned down.”

That description manages to hit every box of traits that make Corypheus and Samson want to scream _TRAITOR._ Corypheus waves the man away, and the messenger runs for his life. Corypheus drops the papers on the table and Samson peers over to investigate.

She’s Tevinter, all right: all dark skin, eyes, and hair. In the painting, she looks both confident and uncomfortable. She is dressed rather sedately for Tevinter noblewomen, from what Samson has heard – an emerald green dress with a plunging neckline almost to her navel (to show off frankly the most stunning tits he has seen for a long time) trimmed with silver and onyx stones, arms wrapped in jeweled cuffs, a small circlet resting in her long black hair, and around her neck, a necklace with a pendant stamped with the Sword of Mercy. Her lips are painted a dark tint, almost green, and her dark eyes are lined with kohl. The artist clearly tried to tone down the muscle in her arms and body, emphasize the shape of her figure, lighten the expression in her eyes (to varying degrees of success), but she still looks like she would rather be anywhere else than sitting for a portrait.

She is, quite frankly, gorgeous. And it’s rather unfair that he has to kill her.

“How _dare she,_ ” Corypheus snarls, “betraying her nation to serve an empty throne, not once, but twice. And now, taking something that is not hers and using it against her own people.”

Samson has feelings about that as well, about a Templar fighting against Templars. It’s less complicated than his feelings regarding the Inquisition’s new commander – _dammit, Cullen, will your faith to the Chantry never fade_ – and especially since she left her Order for some reason or another, but still. She left the Templars to them, turning to the mages that she was familiar with to pull them out of Corypheus’s grasp, and the Master is rather upset about that.

“She steps beyond her bounds, Master,” he replies simply, snarling as he does so. 

“I think it is time that we pay the Inquisition a visit and deal with this pretender.” His master announces firmly, "She thinks she is safe with the mages on her side. It shall not be so. I will take what is rightfully mine from her. Prepare the Templars."

Samson cannot help the smile that slides across his face. “I shall gather our forces, Master.”

* * *

He spies her at the front of the Inquisition’s forces, peering through the snow at him. Her black hair is braided around her head like a crown, her tall frame is covered in leather and steel armor - loose to accommodate movement, which is surprising for a Templar) - and her sharp eyes pierce him. He feels like he’s being sized up like a predator examining her prey, and it infuriates him. She can’t look at him like that, not when she is about to die. Not when he knows that his cause is right, not when he has given so much, not when his men have given so much to welcome this new god to the world. He grins at her, pouring every ounce of malevolence into it.

She bares her teeth at him in a snarl, drawing out her sword and pointing it at him. He wouldn’t be able to hear her yell, but the gesture is enough. _If I am dying here, you’re coming with me._

He’s ready to see her try.

The Inquisition, in the end, puts up a grand fight, and she goes toe to toe with his Master. The Inquisition loses Haven and a good deal of men, but the Herald of Andraste buries half of the Templars under an avalanche and nearly buries his Master in the process. She may have even buried herself, but Samson has a feeling that this isn’t the last they have seen of the Herald of Andraste, not by a long shot.

One of the survivors reports back to him later. “She doesn’t fight like a Templar, General.”

Samson frowns. “What do you mean?”

“At least, not like our Templars. She fights like a rogue some moves, like a warrior others. It’s incredibly effective, and she knew it. She was confident, general.”

“How confident?”

“When the behemoth charged her, I believe I heard her say ‘if the Maker had wanted you to live, he would not have created me.’”

…Samson isn’t sure if he should be amused, frightened, or turned on.

He might be feeling all of the above right now.

\--

She survived, of course, and now she has a new title. Inquisitor. Not to mention even more flocking to her banner and a familiar face as an advisor - hello Champion, it's been a long time since the streets of Darktown, and look how far we have come.

It is against all tactical advice for Samson to reach out to his enemy. The message could be used to trace back to him somehow or worse yet, reveal the weakness that is his interest in her. Or rather his interest that is rapidly turning into a fixation. He cannot help it. For all Samson denied himself as part of the Order, he remembers his affection for women that could break him. He studies every bit of intelligence regularly in the hopes that it will reveal some of her secrets, anything to give him an edge, but nothing comes. All that it does is remind him exactly what kind of woman he is facing. It is against any form of advice, but Samson wants her to know that he sees her. Whether it's a threat or not is for her to decide.

The note is simple, left behind at a camp in Sahrnia: _**Inquisitor. Do you really think you are the sword of righteousness against a false god? What do you think we are?**_

It feels like eons later, but in reality, only a few weeks before a message is returned to him. It was shoved in the pocket of a spared messenger by the Inquisitor herself, he is told as he is offered the neatly folded parchment. Had to be given to him personally, read by no one.

It is short and sweet, written in the neat calligraphy of a noble: _**I think y**_ _ **our ass is grass and I am the scythe.**_

It makes him snort with laughter despite himself. It is amusing enough that he doesn't punish the messenger for fleeing the battle. 

* * *

The portrait didn’t do her justice, Samson can’t help but think as she walks up to him in the Arbor Wilds.

~~(He knows her portrait well. He spirited it away from Corypheus’s reports and keeps it in his gear, a shameful secret when he takes himself in hand and imagines her pinning him under her, riding him like it is the end of the world.)~~

She’s chopped off most of her hair and taken off most of her makeup, apart from the eyeliner, but she is still a work of art. Her cheekbones could cut glass, her armor hides the figure that had entranced him at first (a new one, made of silverite and what looks like dragon scales), and there is a life to her eyes that was missing in the portrait. She’s covered in blood, her sword and shield out, and she stares him down with a strength that makes his knees weak and his soul rage. She spent some time in court, he guesses - she sizes him up and judges him with a single look.

It is a damn, _damn_ shame that he has to kill her now.

“Inquisitor. You and those elf-things don’t know when to stop,” he glares. “You’ve hunted us half across Thedas. We come to the back end of nowhere, and here you are.”

“I aim to please,” she grins, fire in her eyes. Then something in her softens. “Before we fight, I have to tell you – I spoke with your Tranquil, Maddox. He sacrificed himself for your cause.”

His heart drops into his stomach, shaking his head in anger. “I told him not to.”

It’s not pity in her eyes, but he puts it in there to fuel his rage even more.

"He died as one of us, then. One of the faithful," he decides. 

He tells her then, unable to stop himself, about how Corypheus chose him first as general, second as the vessel for the Well of Sorrows. He can see her companions glower behind her: the bearded Warden who looks disgusted with him, the Tevinter mage shaking his head in disbelief, the elven archer blowing him a raspberry. All the while, as he tells her that he will carry the wisdom that can scour the world to Corypheus so his god can enter the Fade, the Inquisitor's eyes stare deep into him. He has to look away to get away from them, in the guise of confidence.

"Corypheus will be unstoppable," he tells her.

There is an inelegant snort behind him. "If this is what the southern order turns their men into, I'm rather glad mine had some sense."

 _Right. A templar._ He turns to spit at her.

"This is a new world, Inquisitor. With a new god. This...is power."

Her smile is fierce as she raises a rune and his armor - his strength, his power, _NO_ \- is stripped away from him. "Power is a dangerous thing, Samson. Especially when it is taken away."

He does not recall the fight, only that his soldiers fall beside him, and no matter how many times his sword swings, her shield rises to stop it. Samson fights and fights until the fight is beaten out of him. Falling to the ground, he lays battered and broken under her sword. The cold metal taps his throat once before drawing away and she crouches down beside him. Everything is going dark, his vision fuzzy, but he feels her leans forward and whisper in his ear, “I’m not done with you yet.”

The world fades to darkness, and he can’t help the dread that wells up in him.

\--

It's cold and dark in the cells below Skyhold. Samson sits in the corner of the cell, awaiting judgment, a scowl on his face. The guards aren't happy with him either, giving him a wide berth but keeping an eagle eye on him. Of course they were - the precious Inquisition didn't want to lose him, even though he'd already lost everything. Cullen had come down to see him once, furious, and didn't stay long, barely able to stand the sight of him. Not that Samson blamed him - he was everything that the commander despised, after all.

Now, he just had to wait and see what the Inquisitor wanted of him. She'd kept him alive and made sure he was dragged back to the Inquisition in decent care, but she hadn't said a word to him other than brief words to make sure he was alright. Saving her best words for the trial, he suspected. He sits alone in the shadows, his veins throbbing with a need for lyrium. He has been given small amounts, enough to keep the worst cravings at bay, but it's not enough. Not compared to being surrounded by red lyrium. His head pounds, he is sweating, he can't sleep, he hurts so much...

“Let me see him. You’re dismissed for now.”

It’s **her** voice. The guards part with ease, turning to walk up the steps to leave them be, and there is the sound of heeled boots clicking on the stone. Samson sits up in his cell, walking over to the bars, and leans against them. He pours every last ounce of menace into his smile, ready to face her, but when she steps into his view, it flickers.

She is something else without the armor, even in the torchlight. She dresses in dark colours, a form-fitting tunic and leggings, high boots above that, and a thick leather jacket on top for warmth. He can still see her figure, the shape of her, and she nearly meets his eye for height. The Imperial Chantry had no idea what it was throwing away if it let her go, this…Tevene Andraste.

She stumbles for only a moment. “Hello, Inquisitor,” he sneers. “Here to gloat?”

Her mouth quirks up in a smirk, her eyebrow arched. “I think if I was here to gloat, I’d want more people watching it happen, wouldn’t I?” Her voice is a purr, and despite his best efforts, Samson’s body reacts to it. “It’s not as fun without an audience, and I wanted this to be a private chat.”

He grips the bars tightly to keep from letting the effect of her words and voice show. “And what, pray tell, did the inquisitor want to keep private?”

“I wanted to see what the Chantry did to you.” Her voice hits him like a whip crack. “I want to see what I need to fix.”

Her eyes practically sear into him and he swallows. “You really think you can fix it.” 

_How can you fix an animal rotting from the inside out?_

The Inquisitor's chin lifts, her shoulders setting with confidence. “I can damned well try. They don’t like listening to a Tevinter, think I’ll betray them to Corypheus any minute, but I will drag them to redemption whether they like it or not.”

She sounds like she could.

Samson stares at her in disbelief, not sure what to say. Finally, he asks a question that he has wondered for some time, a question left unanswered no matter how many inquiries he made in the hopes of blackmail. “Why did you leave your Order?”

Her gaze shutters and her body shifts, ready to attack. “How did you know about that?”

“There were some reports on you. Didn’t say why you left, just that you did,” he smirks. “Come on, from one Chantry reject to another. Why did you leave?”

She is quiet, eying him, and she gives in just a little. “I realized I’d sold my soul to them. Did everything the Order and the Magisterium told me to, every terrible thing, without question. I’d forgotten how to be a person, with morals and principles.”

That feels so like him that it hurts. He swallows.

“And you?” She asks. “Why did you join Corypheus? You had to know that he wasn’t going to leave the world intact.”

He glares. “If the most powerful person you will ever meet offers you a chance to be something, you wouldn’t take it?”

She looks away, staring at the floor. Samson knows the answer. Perhaps, in another life, she would have. She would have taken his place, or she would have stood behind Calpernia, a sword behind the magic, if Calpernia’s plans had worked. If she hadn’t left, if she hadn’t gone hunting for morality. She seems to know that – he sees it in her eyes.

“Why did you come down here, Inquisitor?” He can’t help how tired he sounds, the anger finally fading into the background.

“I wanted to see what I would have become,” The Inquisitor says softly, “and I wanted to see if there was anything left in you to save.”

The snarl he makes is more out of habit than anything else. “And is there?”

Her nod is sharp, the expression in her eyes fierce, but it does not feel like judgment. Not this time. It feels like she is looking at him, at the parts of him hidden under the rage and sorrow and pain, the tiny part of him that _wants_ to be saved.

“I’ll drag _you_ to redemption whether you like it or not, Raleigh Samson.”

“I would like to see you try, Inquisitor Maren.”

* * *

He hates working with Cullen. More often than not, he and Cullen end up shouting at each other, words cutting like swords, and they end up getting nothing done as Cullen storms out to get air and Samson is led back to the room he occupies instead of a cell. They give him a little more lyrium rations, enough to hit the worst of the cravings, but not enough to replace the glory that was the red. (He’d known he was an addict, but he hadn’t realized how badly.)

Finally, he enters the normal workroom, accompanied by guards, and finds not Cullen, but the Inquisitor sitting at the desk. Her boots are up on the table, a quill tucked behind her ear, and she doesn’t straighten up when he comes in. Instead, she waves the guards out and beckons him over.

“I guess I did something good to deserve your attention, Inquisitor.”

She snorts. “Cullen’s ready to murder you. I thought I’d find out what had aggravated him so before I made a decision.”

He sits down across from her, and finally, she sits up straight. She’s wearing a different blouse today, and the angle is just right for him to get a look down her cleavage (Maker, she has fantastic breasts) without looking obvious.

"So what are we doing today, o mighty Inquisitor?" He smirks and teases just to make her laugh, her chest heaving with it. 

"Maker, please don't call me that," her grin is sharp, a performance as much as his smirk, but her words are stern. "If we are going to be here for some time, drop the title."

"As you wish, _Maren,"_ he puts some frankly filthy emphasis on her name, and her gaze sharpens on him. There is intent in her eyes, but he can't tell if it is the kind of intent that will make her want to slap him or the kind of intent that will make her kiss him. He is perfectly fine with either. Or both.

Cullen had prepared a list of questions and Ariadne goes through them with him. All good strategic questions, of course, but Samson has absolutely no intention of answering them. No, not when each answer could be the thing that gets him killed when this Inquisition goes tits up. Even if they have his master on the run...it's still an option. So he holds his tongue, snarking back at her and asking her questions about herself in return. The Inquisitor indulges him a little, but she makes little notes by the questions, perhaps ones that she'll return to.

“Tell me, Maren,” he asks eventually, “do you really think you’re Andraste’s chosen?”

“You really think Andraste would choose a queer faithless Tevinter as her chosen?” She snorts. “Unlikely.”

He raises an eyebrow. He’d heard stories, but to hear it all laid out is something else entirely. “So what are you, then?”

“Unlucky, lucky, making the best of it, doing my duty, making changes, learning how to be myself,” she replies, flipping a parchment page with a nonchalance that her eyes don’t show. “Tell me, Raleigh, why do you care?”

He loves how she says his name. It’s practically purred, turned into something rare and precious, and he shifts a little in his chair to hide the reaction. “Can’t a man find out more about his interrogator?”

“When his interrogator happens to have been his enemy up until extremely recently, that tends to be frowned upon.” She smirks. “Besides, I thought you said Corypheus had information on me already.”

“Only a bit. Not what you think like. What you looked like, a little about your background. Just enough to enrage him.”

She laughs. “Oh, he had so much to say to me about betraying my country.”

“He said some of it to me,” he snorts.

Then her eyebrow arches. “And what I looked like? How did they get that?”

“An old wedding portrait, I believe. A green dress?” He tries to sound like he doesn’t have it imprinted on his brain.

She hums before making an ‘aha’ noise. “I remember that dress! My tits looked amazing in that dress.”

He makes an affirmative noise before he can catch himself and she stares at him, unabashedly shocked. Then her eyes light up with mirth, although she doesn’t laugh.

“Well, Raleigh, do you think my tits look nice?” She practically purrs, and he can _feel_ the blush creeping into his cheeks.

“There’s no right answer to that question, Inquisitor,” he tries to inject formality back into the situation.

“Oh, that means you _do_ have an opinion, and given how many times you’ve looked down my shirt this meeting, I think I know what it is.”

He feels like he’s been eyed up by a predator again, but instead of shame, it’s…wildly arousing. He swallows, trying to regain control of himself, and digs into the control he left in the order. “And what do you think of that? Hm? Your enemy spending time thinking about your tits?”

“I think I might just have a way to appease both of our interests.”

He leans back in his seat with a nonchalance he doesn’t feel. “Do tell.”

“Every question you answer, I undo a button.”

His eyes bulge for a moment. This is bad. This is how you commit treason. This is how you drag a man into regret and treason and sin and oh, what does he care, he hasn’t seen a good pair of tits in person for years and he’s not thinking with his brain anymore. By the time his brain comes back to itself, his eyes are rooted squarely on her cleavage, her fingers resting tantalizingly on a button. He jerks back, trying to pull nonchalance back into himself…and nods.

“Alright. First question. Corypheus used Wardens to preserve his life on the chance that his body was destroyed. How many Warden mages does he have left?”

His response is prompt if a little censored. "About two battalions worth."

Her smile is a reward in itself, like a drill sergeant after you execute a new maneuver perfectly. She writes down the answer, taking notes with neat precision. When she’s done, she tucks the quill behind her ear and her hands go down to her shirt. Her fingertips catch the button and thread it slowly back through the hole, pushing it back. Her cleavage plunges about an inch lower and he feels his mouth water.

“Oh, and when we’re out of buttons, keep answering and you’ll get to see more.”

Oh, he is a weak man.

_Corypheus will kill me for this. But oh, what a way to go._

"Next question," she drags him forcefully out of his thoughts. "How many Templars does Corypheus still have under his command, even without you as their general?"

This question is a little harder to answer. "That's not an easy number to give."

She doesn't frown at him like Cullen did when he asked that question. _**I want answers, Samson, and you'll give them to me,**_ Cullen had snapped, just as wound up as he was without lyrium, and that had just fed the fire. No, Inquisitor Maren just shifts and tells him, "Elaborate."

And he does. "With the red lyrium supplies cut, the number of functioning templars could shift drastically, based on how Corypheus rations out the remaining red lyrium to feed the army, and that means he can't make new ones to replace any that are cut down," the thought is painful, but Samson pushes through it, "not to mention that I still have no idea how many your forces cut down during the attack on the Temple of Mythal,"

The Inquisitor nods, her head tipping with consideration of the facts, and it is with almost unthinking idleness that she undoes the next button. It isn't, though. Her eyes are on him, fixed on him, and her pupils are a little dilated. Perhaps it's the lighting, but all that Samson can think of is that she's enjoying this as much as he is. The Inquisitor likes putting on a show - he knows that much from his reports and what he has seen of her. It makes sense that she would flaunt what she has and enjoy his reaction. Still, his breath goes a little raspy as he stares at the edge of her breastband, now peeing up from the cleavage. It's black with faint gold embroidery, sparkling in the candlelight, and he swallows. Not standard issue. She went out and bought that for herself.

_I want to rip it off her._

"So, with the assumption that Corypheus will maintain his existing level of forces and not make any more, and that the templars took a...fifty percent loss, how many templars would you say that he has left?" The feather flicks in the air as the quill flips between her fingers, the end of the feather brushing the edge of the buttons, and Samson feels a desperate need to drag the quill from her fingers, running the feather along the skin to make her squirm. He is quiet for too long and her voice hardens. " **Samson.** "

He almost trips over his words in his need to get them out. "Less than your army, but each Templar is worth at least two of your soldiers, so the number match. There are two red lyrium giants left in Sahrnia, at least ten behemoths remaining for the final assault, and a lieutenant for every battalion to transform soldiers into horrors."

More neat notes. Outside, there is the faint sound of training, of the wind through the mountains, voices, the flapping of banners. In this room, this room that Samson's entire world has shrunk to...the only sounds are the scratching of her quill, the faint flickering of the candles, and their breathing. Samson's breathing always sounds ragged, his lungs ravaged by lyrium use and in enough pain that he can barely get a full breath, but it sounds heavier now. He wants, he wants, he wants, but it is taking all of his strength to stay in his chair. The Inquisitor's breathing, on the other hand, is steady and soft. He thinks it's a little forced, like she's trying to keep herself calm with that painful steadiness. Judging by the heat in her eyes...it's barely working. 

Her fingers rise to undo the next button. Her nails are a little long, but they're clean, no dirt under the nails. When they draw away, all he sees is more of the breastband. It's wide and he thinks he sees ribbing in it. No small wonder - her tits are enormous. There has to be some support or the woman wouldn't be able to run, let alone fight. There's a little bow on the band that makes him snicker just a little, but it doesn't stop his desire at all. All it does is make his mouth water a little more, makes his desire more real. It's not just a fantasy. It's a living person who makes him that hungry. 

Her questions don't stop. "How do you stop red lyrium from spreading?"

Samson swallows. "We haven't exactly been stopping it from spreading, Inquisitor." That is the exact opposite of what he had been trying to do. 

"You know more about it than most, Samson, and not just from experience with it. You know lyrium and you're a clever man. Give me something."

There is no answer. He has no idea, but he scavenges his brain for something. For anything. "We gave the lyrium blood to make it grow faster. It feeds off of the living, like mushrooms out of a log," he replies, his voice low. His fingers knot in his thigh, nails digging in to try and drag his brain back into conscious thought. "Get rid of everything living in the area..."

"And it stops. Like fighting a wildfire," The Inquisitor's eyes sparkle with approval, and her notes are a little more frantic as she scribbles. "Nicely _done,_ Samson."

The praise feeds his ego and he preens a little. "I wasn't _just_ Corypheus's sword."

"No, you weren't," those dark eyes sweep over him and Samson's mouth goes dry. He swallows reflexively and anxiously waits for her to finish writing. A few more scratches, and then a few more - Samson could _swear that she's doodling on the page just to drive him insane._ Then finally, finally, she sets down her quill and undoes another button. It's finally the bottom of her breastband and he can see a triangle of caramel skin above the button. All of his instincts tell him to put his mouth there, to taste the sweetness of her skin and feel it ripple under his tongue. Maybe she's ticklish. Maybe it would make her moan. Maybe her sword would be at his throat the moment skin hit skin. (It would be worth it, though. So, so worth it.)

"What did he promise you?" The question is harsh and it frankly rips him out of his thoughts. The desire fades for a moment as the words sink in, tearing at him. This is it. This is the question that will judge him for all eternity. _What did he promise you? What did the man who wanted to become a god and tear the world asunder promise you to make him join your side?_

Her voice pierces his thoughts again, but it's softer. A little more comforting. "Help me understand. I am sure that whatever he promised seemed worth the pain."

(He remembers the stranger in the Hanged Man in Kirkwall. A vial of red. How the stranger had asked what a Templar was and Samson had not been able to give an answer that felt true.)

His voice is soft this time, lost in memories and longing and the taste of red lyrium on his tongue. "He asked what price I would be willing to pay to could tear this upstart Chantry out by the roots. And I said that if it gave one templar a better end than mine, I’d pour out my own blood for it."

And so it had begun. The Inquisitor makes a note on the parchment and he leans up a little to see what his experience has been summarized into. To his surprise, it hasn't - she has written down every word and there is a symbol by it, a five-pointed star.

"What does that mean?" He snarls.

"It means something I have to remember after this is all over," she murmurs softly. "I said I would drag them to redemption whether they want it or not, remember? This is where I begin. Help the mages feel safe, break the leash that holds the templars. It'll be hard, but I'll do it."

...when this is all over, he wants to hear how she'll do it. But now all he can taste is the red lyrium on his tongue and he can't think about it, he can't, he can't, he needs...

He grabs the water on the table and guzzles it. It doesn't strip the taste from his mouth but it's a start. He needs a distraction, so he puts on his best sneer and says, "That was a question, wasn't it?"

She snorts. "It was." She doesn't draw attention to the different kind of need that is in his eyes and simply undoes the next button without fanfare. There's only one left holding the shirt together. The shirt slopes on one shoulder, revealing more of her collarbone. There are freckles on her shoulder and if he focuses on them (which he does, anything to strip the memory of the red), he thinks they look like an owl, like that constellation. He wants to trace it with his tongue. 

"Tell me about the dragon."

"It scares the shit out of me."

Samson had imagined the Inquisitor's laugh before. He'd pictured a noble's giggle, like he heard noble girls in Hightown do, the kind that made him want to roll his eyes or give them something to giggle about. It had helped him imagine her as insufferable. Now, though, she laughs as though she means it, like she doesn't care who is watching or whether it's dignified. The sound fills the room and her chest heaves with it. "Anyone with a brain is scared of that thing," the laugh trickles off to a snort as she tries to gather herself, "but I was hoping for something more, or that won't count as a question."

He hurries to find more details. "The amount of meat it goes through is terrifying, but sometimes it just doesn't have to eat, like it turns off its stomach or something. It only leaves Corypheus's side when he tells it to. It doesn't go off just for fun - it lives for what he tells it to do. It's not much, but that's all I know."

Ariadne makes a few more notes and sets the quill down. "You've been so much more cooperative than Cullen led me to believe."

"Well, you're prettier than he is," he quips.

"I'm glad you think so." And finally...the last button is undone.

He thinks he has gone to the Maker's side.

She smooths the fabric back to reveal a little more of her midriff. There are little folds in her belly from sitting, but he can see her abs. Maker, he could cut cheese on her abs. And her skin, sweet Maker, she looks like she’s made of caramel. And looking up her body, he can see her smile. She likes the attention, he can tell, and maybe it’s not just him that’s affected. Then she draws her shirt off. Her arms have muscles that make him hungry. Oh, not only could she push him into a wall, but she could hold him up. His mind is already coming up with new fantasies.

“What’s your next question, oh, Inquisitor?” His voice is a little husky.

"This one is simple. Is Corypheus just angry with us...or is he afraid of us?"

"Both. Angry with the Inquisition, afraid of you."

She writes down the answer and then she

Undoes.

Her breastband.

He lets out a noise that is almost inhuman, low and hungry. She chuckles, dropping her breastband on the desk.

“Maker’s balls, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs.

She smiles. “One more question, and if you give me a full answer, the kind Corypheus wouldn’t want you to give but that you’ll give me anyway,” she leans forward a little, her breasts hanging, and his eyes are on them like a hawk, “I’ll let you touch them.”

“Anything.” He manages to say.

"He will come to face me eventually. He has to," her voice is firm. "What will he do?"

This is the answer that will really get him executed.

Oh, to hell with it, he's already going to die. He might as well enjoy the road to it.

"He'll tear the Breach open again. If he can find another orb, he'll tear the breach open again and you'll have to go to him. Back where it began. And he'll do it quickly before you can get all of your forces back from the Arbor Wilds. Whatever preparations you need to do, you'll have to do them fast, Inquisitor."

As she finishes writing it down, she stands up and walks around the desk. “You stay there,” she presses him back in the chair as he starts to rise. “You’re not the one in charge here, Raleigh. That’s _my job._ ”

Oh he’s so turned on that he could die.

“Hands.”

He offers his hands without a second thought. They’re not in manacles, at least, but she still guides them up with a firm grip. Her eyes are sharp on him, with a firm look that says ‘if you do anything to fuck with me, I don’t have magic but I will rain hellfire down on you’. Not that he would jeopardize it in the slightest.

Then he gets to touch them and he releases his pent up tension in a slow hiss. He'd known her tits were large, but seeing them overflow from his hands really does something for him.

"Just hands?" He asks, hoping beyond hope that she'll let him give them a kiss.

"Just hands." She lets go of his wrists and leans against the desk, at ease as if she let her enemies grope her all the time. "For now."

He can't tell if that means that she might change her mind as he goes or if that means this won't be the only time he gets to touch her. He's not sure which one he wants more.

The Inquisitor's skin is so soft, softer than silk or satin. With every brush of his rough fingers (covered in scars and calluses and burns), he worries that he'll scratch her or leave some kind of mark. It would be too good if he left a mark on her skin. Something to taint her, or perhaps some mark of him that she'll wear under her clothes for only herself to see. He cups her breasts in his hands, feeling the weight of them, massaging them. He savours it, mapping every contour and freckle, committing it to memory. This alone will keep him sated for years. Then his thumbs slide over her nipples. They're a darker brown, perking up under his touch. Her breath hisses out with the touch, and he looks up to see her head lolling back.

He leans forward, breath ghosting across the skin. He does not touch. He waits.

(If he was good at anything as a Templar, it was taking orders.)

Her voice is husky, shaking, as her fingers knot in the desk. "Yes."

_Perhaps there is a Maker after all._

Samson is not a gentleman. He never has been. He is rough as he latches onto her breast, teeth nipping at the nipple and sucking on it. One of her hands flies up from the desk to clap over her mouth, muffling a sound that is definitely a moan. Samson's tongue draws circles around the nipple, flicking at the sensitive peak, and his fingers slide up to tweak the other nipple. She moans again, pressing her hand tighter against her face, and he wishes there weren't guards outside the door so he could hear that sound in its entirety. It must be beautiful to hear her moan as unabashedly as she laughs. He would make her moan until she went hoarse if she'd let him.

His tongue worries the nipple until it is flushed and he bites the skin beside it. He sucks and sucks to leave a mark, something to show that he has tainted her perfection, something she'll wear under that breastband and look at and remember that he did this to her. To his surprise, she does not stop him. Instead, she lets go of the desk, shifting her legs to stabilize herself, and her hand comes up into his hair. There is a fleeting thought that his hair is overgrown and greasy, that she really shouldn't like it, but then she is pressing him to her and hissing through her hand, _"Bite me harder, dammit."_

Which he does. And her moan makes him so hard that he could cut glass.

He switches sides, tweaking the saliva soaked nipple with his fingers while the other gets special treatment. He writes his full name over it with his tongue, pausing between each letter to suckle on it or bite at the soft skin. She is breathing hard, chest heaving desperately, and her fingers are tight in his hair. How much time passes, Samson has no idea. His world has narrowed down to enough space to hold the two of them and he is certain that the guards will keep to their posts and not interrupt them.

Her voice hisses down at him, "Sit back."

Samson does without question and looks up at her. Maker, she's beautiful: her cheeks flushed, his lips parted and wet like she's been biting her lip, her breasts covered in bruises shaped like his mouth, an endless expanse of skin on display just for him. Her knee comes forward to kick his knees apart and he does so gladly. The crotch of his pants is severely tented, and her eyes lock on it. (Perhaps being Inquisitor doesn't give you time to pursue your own needs.) Then she sits down on his thigh and he _feels_ the wetness seeping through her pants. It makes him groan, and she flashes him a glare. Like this, they are looking eye to eye, and he sees the hunger in her eyes.

(He wonders if she sees it in his own.)

"Don't stop," she snarls, "and I'll make you come too."

_And how the hell can he refuse that?_

He sets to work, one hand splayed across the small of her back for support so she can lean forward, the other guiding one of her breasts into his mouth. She groans and her hips roll. That makes his brain short out. She's _riding his leg._ That just turns him on even more and he doubles his efforts. She grinds against him, one hand still muffling her sounds as he feasts on her. Every mark is deepened to a dark bruise and he leaves a bite mark on the underside of her breast deep enough to count every tooth. Her knee comes up at that and his hips roll into it. It makes him groan, the sound muffled by the sheer amount of tit in his mouth.

They make quite a picture. The Inquisitor, leader of armies of the faithful, getting off on the knee of Raleigh Samson, her enemy's greatest general.

She never moans his name. Not that he had expected her to, of course, but it would have been nice. Still, it's a perfect symphony as her sounds speed up to match her hips and he even lets go of her breast to slide a hand down against her trousers. He strokes about where he guesses her clit is and she comes with a beautiful whimper. He's so turned on that he could die, but then her hand comes down to his, palm flat and hard, and he grinds against it. He comes embarrassingly quickly, soaking through his trousers, burying his face between her perfect, beautiful breasts.

The afterglow is lovely. The Inquisitor doesn't get up and Samson doesn't shove her off. His hands slide to her sides, resting in the small of her back, thumbs stroking across the warmed skin. He leans forward and presses his face into her sternum, taking in a slow breath. She smells like soap and perfume, her skin warm against his forehead, and if he stretches his imagination a little, he can hear the faint beat of her heart. It feels strange to admit, but it might be the closest he has been to another human being in years.

It feels so _good._

Despite the enormous liberty, she doesn’t shove him off. No, she reaches up and gently slides her fingers into his hair. He startles at the touch, but she shushes him softly, carding her fingers through his hair. He lets out a hum, hands sliding down to rest at her hips, and she keeps petting. She slowly starts humming a tune he doesn’t recognize at first, but then it slowly slips into his memory.

_The shepherd’s lost and his home is far_

_Keep to the stars, the dawn will come_

_The night is long and the path is dark_

_Look to the sky for one day soon_

_The dawn will come._

He snickers a little, and she gently taps his skull with a finger. The unspoken statement is there – _you interrupt this, I stop._

She hums longer, alternating between hymns. He pets slowly at her side, drinking in the warmth of human contact. He commits it to memory, every blessed second of it.

Finally, she taps his shoulder and he leans back. Samson looks up into the Inquisitor's eyes...and she smiles at him. 

Her breastband is put back on, and she hauls her shirt on top of it. He does up the buttons, one at a time, and she gives him a warm, almost vulnerable smile.

“Thank you, Raleigh,” she says softly.

“Thank _you_ , Inquisitor.”

“I think you can call me Ariadne now.”

...Perhaps he will.


End file.
